


Hindsight is a Wonderful Thing

by starfish8727



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27419680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfish8727/pseuds/starfish8727
Summary: Sixteen years had passed since the events in Paris and the de Chagnys are still resentful of Raoul's choice of wife. After Raoul's passing Christine feels she has no choice but to flee with her children and seek support from a friend. But Phillipe has other ideas. E/C
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 9
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Badpixie06](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badpixie06/gifts).



**_Prologue:_ **

**_Romy de Chagny_ **

Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

Like most people I have made decisions in my life that were unwise, I have ignored advice and acted on emotions rather than logic, and I have caused people I love pain.

I have always tried to take ownership of my actions, learning to live with my mistakes and to make ammends. But after twenty years I still lose sleep over the final words I spoke to my father.

It would be untruthful to pretend that my words weren't meant to hurt. They were purposefully inflamitory, cruel and distasteful. I spoke out of spite and in anger, allowing the arrogance created by my privileged upbringing fuel a behaviour and attitude I knew to be wrong.

The last time I spoke to my father I was fifteen. We had been spending the summer at his ancestral home in the company of my grandmother and uncle's family. One afternoon I had returned from a brief canter through the nearby wood to find one of my cousins, Claude, taunting my brother and pulling his hair. In response to the dreadful sight I had slapped my cousin hard across the face and threatened him with my riding whip. To this day I believe my actions were justified, after all Claude was thirteen and Gustav was only eight, but unfortunately my father disagreed. Apparently such behaviour was not becoming of a young lady, and I could not be a debutante if acted in such a primal way. Having no desire to be paradaded in front of French hight society I had acted dismissively, which ultimately sealed my fate.

I had protested vehemently when my father and uncle announced I would be attending finishing school in Lille. I had pleaded with father to change his mind; I promised to apologise to Claude and correct my behaviour, I swore I would listen to grandmother's instructions and would seek redemption from God, but nothing was enough.

The morning of my departure was only a few days later, and I had sat with my mother and cried my eyes dry. I knew that she was powerless when it came to father's family, especially when we were in their home, but I had hoped she would have had some sway. She had told me father didn't want me to go, but he had to discipline me otherwise he would look inferior and incompetent in the eyes of his brother. Rather than quelling my anger (as she intended) my anger towards father grew.

I remember the exact moment I made my decision to speak those vile words to the one man who loved me unconditionally. It had been when I had seen my cousin Claude's grin as I waited for the carriage. I had began to walk in his direction, determined to leave the chateux in the blazing glory of a last hurrah, but father caught my arm. At that moment anger rose from deep within me; father was not defending me, he did not care for my feelings, he was not protecting me. Instead he was stiffling my individuality by forcing me to attend finishing school. That was when I turned and spoke the words that hurt both my mother and father.

"I wish the rumours about mother were true and I was not your daughter".

As the words left my mouth the room filled with an oppressive silence; all eyes were now on me and father. I heard a sound from behind me, whom I assumed was mother, but was unable to turn due to my father's tightening grip around my wrist.

"I have had enough of this!", he hissed at me, before dragging me to the carriage. Initially I tried to resist by pulling back, twisting my arm and dragging my feet, but it didn't work. I heard the sounds of mother's protests as father pushed me trough the carriage door.

"You shan't come home until you are a lady" father bellowed as he slammed the door, clearly having become more frustrated by my behaviour as I had fought him.

If I had known what I do now then the last words I said to my father would've been of love and affection, instead I had leaned out of the window and shouted "I dispise you". I cared not for his feelings.

Two weeks later father was dead. An aneurysm following a stroke.

That is the problem with hindsight, you can evaluate your mistakes knowing what you did wrong, but you can easily be drawn into an ever increasing sense of melancholy as you are unable to change them.

The day I returned from my finishing school was a blur. I was mentally and physically exhausted. Travel made me tired and I had a headache from crying and begging for both father's and Gods' forgiveness. I had slept from the moment the carriage doors closed - relieved I would be going home - but when I awoke and realised that we were not returning to Paris, my already damaged heart filled with dread. I assumed mother, Gustav and I were staying at the chateux under the guise of family support, but I knew it was so that we could be controlled. I knew that Uncle Phillipe would control mother's finacial wellbeing, and I half expected to be married-off to one of his widowed friends as soon as my year of mourning was complete.

I had been greeted by both mother and my brother. I could see both had been crying, and could imagine the conversations my grandmother and uncle would have been having about my eight year old brother's behaviour. He was now the Vicomte de Chagny, and as such I doubted he was allowed to cry. I embraced them both and whispered reassurances into Gustav's ear, before retiring to my room. I barely saw or spoke to anyone that day. I refused food and sent the servants away. Mother tried to coax me from my room, but in my despair and anger I'd refused to see her.

I only unlocked my door at night once I was certain the chateux was still and ventured onto the landing. I had always hated that house. When I was around five or six my eldest cousin Alexandre had told me it was haunted by slain revolutionaries and I spent nights fighting my need to sleep out of fear I would be executed while I dreamed. As I grew older and ceased believing in ghost stories and fairy tales I grew to dislike the decor and opulence, along with everything it stood for.

Looking back upon my behaviour at that time I can say with certainty I was a hypocrite: I would denounce the aristocracy and the systems of old, only to use them to my advantage when it suited. Being older and wiser I have grown to understand that my upbringing for those first fifteen years brought a sense of entitlement and detachment that is not easily dismissed, and although I saw the injustice when I was younger I could not remove myself from it's grip.

I hadn't been on the landing long when I heard the sound of sobs from my brother's room. My heart was broken by father's parting, but I knew it would be harder for Gustav. When I entered the room I found him sitting on his bed, gas lamp turned down, crying into his blanket in an attempt to muffle the sound - likely in fear.of the chastisement my uncle and Grandmother would provide. That night I climbed into his bed and held him while he cried himself to sleep.

For the next three nights Gustav came to my room to sleep beside me in my much larger bed. Unbeknowst to everyone, we both cried ourselves to sleep, neither talking about father or out uncle's interference, but knowing our lives were forever changed. I would offer reassuring words and meaningless promises of secuirty and safety, knowing that I was in no position to make such declarations.

Mother was engulfed in her own grief, I heard her sobs at night, and in the morning her eyes red and puffy from tears. I heard the arguments between mother and uncle Phillipe; Phillipe wanted me to return to school and her to Paris, leaving Gustav in his care. Although mother had become accustomed to surrendering to Phillipe's will (as he was head of the de Chagny family), she had refused to return to Paris without us. I have sinced asked her if she regrets her defiance, as if she had complied then she would've avioded the subsequent trauma, but she has always responded that were are orchestrators of our own destinies.

It was the early hours of the morn when we absconded, mother having paid several servants with her jewellery to aid us. Our flight from the chatuex had not been easy. We had left on foot and the journey through the grounds to the bordering woodland had taken an hour. Due to the time Gustav was exhausted and mother and I shared the load of carrying him - something that was not easy for two slight women in the dark of night.

The rest of the journey was unconsequential except mother insisted we only speak Swiss. I had never travelled in anything other than first class and can still remember the feeling of unease in the third class train carriage and boat deck. I was used to the opulence my family's wealth and status secured, primarily the presence of servants and the silence and secuirty of our own compartments and rooms. I felt uneasy in the crowded carriage, certain they would know I didn't belong. I recall watching them nervously, fearful they would take my bag and search for my poorly hidden jewellery, or make inappropriate gestures and propositions towards me. Again my thoughts and behaviour betrayed an education and relatity detached from the majority, while having an expensive education that lacked an understanding of the world.

My first impression of London was it was simular to Paris: it was busy, noisy, and smelly. Parisian archecture was certainly more appealing and less uniform, but London was far more diverse than my home city. I never fully understood why we hadn't visited London with father, especially as he had insisted we learn to speak and read English from a very young age. English fashion was of a different style to ours and mother quickly found us a milliner. I recall liking the English style of dress as it was less flamboyent than the French, and finding it amusing that Gustav looked like a mini gentleman rather than an eight year old child.

We travelled by cab to Highbury and stopped in front of a row of terrace houses. Mother was quick to usher us to the door and pay the driver, clearly nervous and exhausted from our journey. Mother rarely acted quickly, normally her actions were well-thought out, so her behaviour told me she was nervous.

I do not recall my first encounter with Meg. My husband, who is an alienist, believes I don't recall our first meeting because of the events that occurred later that night; he claims it is my mind's way of protecting my sanity, but I disagree. I have no academic basis for my assertions, just my own belief that my sanity would be better preserved if I could recall my first meeting with Meg rather than the sound of my mother's screamed protestations in French, Swedish and English.

In hindsight my actions in response to mother's screams were poorly thought out. I instructed my brother to hide under the bed while I investigated. I leaned over the bannister just in time to see mother being bundled out of the door by three men. She was wearing what I now know to be called a straight-jacket, and was being carried away. I almost called out to her, but my voice caught in my throat when I saw my Uncle Phillipe standing guard like a Roman centurion. I knew he had seen me, and I knew we needed to hide.

I had always disliked uncle Phillipe. He may have looked like father, but that was where the simularities ended. Father was kind and compassionate, Phillipe was cold and abrasive. He showed us no compassion when he found our hiding place, instead stating that our mother was mad and would be spending her remaining days in an asylum. Of course I didn't believe mother was insane, but he cultivated a tale of how she had created an elaborate fantasy world full of ghosts and ghouls, and that she had fled to protect us from her imagined demons. Looking back upon what happened next I realise I was a fool. I knew Uncle Phillipe had no interest in me, and I failed to notice the silence that decended over the house after he left me alone to change form my nightgown into travelling attire. I purposefully took longer than needed to dress myself, and I expected my uncle to be waiting at the foot of the stairs, angry with my impertinence. But instead I found the house deserted.

My uncle had taken my brother, had my mother incarcerated in an asylum, and left me alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make me happy :)


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg recounts the events up to her meeting Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay. I have rewritten this chapter so many times that I don't think I'll ever be happy with it.

**Chapter One:**

_Meg Price née Giry_

During my time as a member of the corps du ballet I had always enthusiastically discussed the mysterious Phantom of the Opera. I would gleefully retell the fictional stories of his escapades entwined with my own embellishments to frighten some of the more fragile members of the corps, gaining a strange sense of satisfaction from their exagerrated squeels and panicked flurries. That's why I always announced his presence when anything unexpected or unfortunate occurred. I didn't know if he was behind mischief like taking ribbons and hiding shoes, or even the perversity of damaging props and destroying scenery, but it certainly led for a more exciting environment and broke up the monotony of ballet practice.

It wasn't that I didn't enjoy or value ballet practice, I understood the importance of rigorous training as I had seen many talented dancer's careers end due to sloppy technique and injuries. In fact, my own mother's career had ended following an incorrect landing that damaged her knee, resigning her to the position of ballet mistress.

That was my problem: my mother was the ballet mistress. This automatically meant people assumed one of two things: either I was a naturally talented dancer who would quickly rise through the ranks of the corps to the position of prima ballerina, or I was a sub-par to average dancer who would quickly rise through the ranks of the corps to prima ballerina due to nepotism. Either way, any advancement would never be seen as the result of hard work and dedication on my part, but instead the result of my lineage. This was the same reason that I had no friends within the company and why I spent most of my childhood surrounded by adults rather than my peers, absorbing their stories and learning about the different roles within the Opera House.

What other members of the corps du ballet didn't realise was that I trained longer and harder than anyone else. I may have been dancing since I was three, but I wasn't naturally gifted and every move and position required extended hours to master. I would often to stay late to practise alone, always mindful that I needed to leave before the lamplighters undertook their duties. Mother and I didn't live far from the Garnier - it was only a ten minute walk - but navigating the streets of Paris at night was highly unappealing. I knew that there were bug-hunters, thieves and rapists looking for victims, and an unescorted woman was easy pray. I had always been cautious, but had become more so after news of of 'spring-heeled Jack' made its way across la Manche. It wasn't that I believed the murderer would have made his way to Paris, nor did I meet the appearance or status of his victims, but I did worry some mad-man may have taken it upon himself to follow suit. I became more nervous once I read the descriptions of the assailant; the way he was dressed being characteristic of opera-goers, and although in England performers held higher status than prostitutes in France they did not.

The night I met Christine Daae I had been practising my transitions into a fouetté from a sauter and had lost track of time. Fouettés are notoriously difficult to master and although I was able to do them, the strength needed to continually propel myself while remaining en pointe was not something that can be done with ease. I had eventually ended my practise when I started to feel the warm and sticky sensation of blood in one of my ballet slippers. The moment I realised my binding had not been sufficient to protect my toes I immediately collapsed to the floor and inspected my shoe. Relieved that there were no signs of blood I hurriedly untied my ribbons to inspect my damaged toes.

Having been a dancer my entire life I knew that pointe work damaged the feet, and that was why it was essential to bind your feet toroughly and stuff the tip of the slippers to prevent you from breaking your toes. As I unwound the linen banding I inspected my white shrivelled skin for tears and blisters, and was relieved to have found none. It was when I removed the stuffing from my shoe I found the cause of my problem - I had torn a nail and my feet were swollen. Even then I knew the best remedy for swelling was to rest and elevate my feet, so I moved one of the chairs from the far corner of the room and lay on my back resting my feet above me. I had only intended to remain in that position for five or ten minutes, but exhausted from the strenuous practise I drifted off to sleep.

I hadn't been disturbed from my slumber naturally; I had been shaken. When I opened my eyes I was greeted with the face of a women whose face was half cast in shadows, yet still held the ethereal beauty of one of Michael Angelo's odes to classical deities and mythology.

"Here let me help", she said extending her hand to help me rise, "are you okay? Did you mean to sleep on the floor or did you fall?"

I was certain my blush of embarrassment was so deep that it was visible in the dull light of her candle,

"I'm fine" I muttered as I collected my shoes. Then suddenly it dawned on me: she had a candle and the room was dark. Upon this realisation I went into a blind panic and emptied the contents of my purse onto the polished wooden floor allowing the sound of its contents to echo around the empty room. Upon realising that I did not have enough coins to pay for a cab I sat back on my knees and started to cry.

"Here", the girl said as she pulled the exact amount of money I required from a pocket in her robe. I had briefly wondered why she was wandering around the opera house in her nightdress and robe, but the thought had flickered away and been extinguished by my own concerns.

"Thank you, but I can't take your money", I told her, genuinely touched by the gesture of someone I didn't know, "but you are an angel for offering".

In response she had insisted and enclosed her hand around mine. "It is a gift from 'the Angel'", she said without breaking eye contact. At the time I assumed she was making a bad joke in reference to my previous comment, but now I know differently. Now I know she wasn't referring to herself.

\--xxx--

Although I often refer to that night as our first meeting, that isn't technically true. My mother had introduced Christine to the corps a few weeks beforehand, but we had never spoken. I remember hearing some of the other girls comment about her naturally curly hair, while others spoke with distate due to her beauty, but that didn't stop them from inviting her to join in their rendezvous with the stagehands or their late night games in the dorms.

After the night in the practice room Christine and I became firm friends, and she would always join me for my extra practise sessions. We shared our secrets and our dreams; she wanted to be a prima donna and I a prima ballerina, she was in love with a boy she saw every summer at Perros, and I told her about the former stagehand I had once kissed to reclaim my stolen ballet slippers.

Each member of the corps du ballet had Tuesday afternoon free and most of the girls would spend it gossiping or running errands (some would even be taken in carriage rides by some of the patrons) but I had never participated. Instead I would sit and listen to the orchestra reherse. At first my visits had been to pay homage to my father who had played both the cornet and baccin in the Garnier's orchestra, but as time passed I found music as enticing as dance, drawn by its ability to elevate you to the heavens and then plunge you to hell within the same piece.

One Tuesday afternoon Christine had asked me to accompany her to the market so that she could purchase some fresh lavender. Personally I have never been found of the smell, but Christine adored it.

"It isn't that I don't want to spend time with you", I reassured her after I declined the invitation, "it's just every Tuesday afternoon I sit in the auditorium and listen to the orchestra"

Once I had explained that my father had been a member of the orchestra before his passing, and how my love for music had thrived since listening to the rehesals, she was eager to join me every Tuesday. It only took two Tuesday afternoons for some of the younger members of the orchestra to notice that Christine had started to join me, and as a consequence they began to pay us attention. I wasn't foolish, I knew they only spoke to me as I accompanied Christine but it was nice to be seen as something other than 'Madam Giry's daughter', even if it was just as 'Christine's friend'. There was only one person who made a conscious effort to speak to me, and that was Edward Price - the third violinist.

Over the course of a couple of years Christine became increasingly distant and would shy away from any admirers. I acknowledge that during that period I probably wasn't the most attentative friend, and that I should have been aware of the changes in my friend's demeanour and personality, but I had become preoccupied with my beau; the same way Christine did only a few months later.

When Christine had decided she no longer wished to accompany me to listen to the orchestra I was secretly overjoyed. I througherly enjoyed her company, but I wanted an opportunity to spend time alone with the English third violinist, Edward Price. He was shorter than most men, which I know some women find unappealing, but he is the kindest and most compassionate man I have ever met. I adore how his icy blue eyes contrast against his dark brown hair, and how he speaks with the most appalling artifical French accent I have ever heard. But all said and done, he is an incredible violinist. He was only twenty years old when he had been offered a position in the Garnier's orchestra.

Once Christine stopped attending practise Edward and I began courting; we would spend the evening to the rooftop to steal kisses and hold hands.

We had been courting for a year when Edward received a letter from his sister informing him that their mother was ill and requested he returned home. I cried into my blankets the day he resigned from the Populaire, and I was most hysterical the last time he embraced me upon the Roof. My entire body was shaking as I tried to take deep breathes in-between my sobs, clutching onto his jacket lapels desperate not to let him go.

"Shhh my love", he cooed as he held me and stroked my hair. He pulled my close so that I could hear the sound of his heart and feel the warmth of his touch. We stood in the embrace for several minutes before he broke contact to propose. I had cried harder when he had presented me with a gold band with three emeralds on its shoulders - I desperately wanted to be his wife, but I knew mother would not allow me marry at seventeen. Edward told me he understood and promised he would write. We both pledged that we would remain true to one another, but I think we both believed we would never see each other again.

When I returned home that evening my mother had been furious. Somehow she had learnt of my relationship with Edward and his proposal, and she was angry that we had been courting without her permission. We had a blazing row where she told me I was a liar, disrespectful and ungrateful, and refused to believe that I remained pure. When I demanded she tell me who had told her of my relationship with Edward she had deflected the question and continued to berate me for my unladylike behavior until I retreated to the sanctuary of my room and locked the door. As I lay in my bed I couldn't figure out who, other than Christine, had know of my relationship with Edward, and who could have known he had proposed when we had been alone on the roof.

\--xxx--

After Edward left I became more aware of Christine's strange behaviour. Her singing had improved expentionally, and when a piece of set scenery fell and narrowly missed our prima donna (Carlotta Giudicelli), Christine seamlessly stepped into the role. It had been the night after her debut in Hannibal that suddenly everything fell into place.

Christine had been sublime, but the corps performance had been a "lamentable mess". There were many young men who visited the opera only to see the ballet, so it was paramount that our performance be perfect. I had known that mother would be on the warpath following our abysmal performance, and that I would need to hurry if I was to congratulate Christine before she was surrounded with admirers.

"You were perfect", I gushed once I entered her room, embracing her tightly, "who is your new tutor?".

Christine became agitated following my question and began speaking about her father and an angel of music. She had always been somewhat whimsical and religious, but I was genuinely surprised that she believed that she was being tutored by an angel. I tried to reassure her that such things were in her imagination, but mother interuppted and sent me away.

Things escalated quickly after that night. Christine had been taken to the Opera Ghost's home and it transpired that he had been her tutor, and that the series of unfortunate events that befell Carlotta had been orchestrated by him. I approached my mother and asked her how I could help my friend, after all, she was always telling the head flyman Joseph Buquet that the Opera Ghost was dangerous, but she just reassured me that Christine would be fine. It had been then that I had become suspicious of my mother's involvement with the Ghost. It was well known that she was his intermediary and box keeper, but her calm and assured demeanour told me that she knew much more about the ghost than she had ever shared with me.

Christine told me of the Phantom's home and how he had sung to her in the most mesmerising and hypnotic voice. She spoke with a level of admiration I had never witnessed, and even when she described his deformed features she spoke calmly and with a surprising level of indifference.

After Carlotta's return Christine was renagated back to the chorus, much to the Phantom's dismay. My friend was assigned the silent role of the mute in Il Muto - which I personally think was not only an act of spite, but also one of monumental stupidity. Needless-to-say the Phantom was not impressed, and to show is displeasure he cut the ropes that secured the chandelier and sent it crashing into the stage.

After that incident the Phantom ceased his haunting for several months, enabling Christine and her childhood sweetheart from Perros to begin courting. It was clear to any observer that the pair were deeply in love, and although their social statuses varied dramatically they were clearly happy. That was until the night of the New Year's masquerade when the Phantom reappeared and demanded that the company perform his opera.

By this point Christine had pulled away from me, much preferring to spend her time with her fiancé Raoul de Chagny. I understood, Raoul was a Vicomte and had the wealth and power to protect her from her former Angel and tutor, and I had slighted her in favour of spending time with Edward. I didn't know the details of their conversations as Christine has never shared them, but I do know that she never wanted to partake in Raoul's plan to capture the Phantom and she was genuinely scared that the Ghost would imprison her for her betrayal.

"How have you betrayed him?", I'd asked out of curiosity on one of the rare afternoons we had taken tea together. It was a strange choice of words that implied she and the ghost shared a level of trust, something I found very peculiar.

"He taught me to sing", she said averting her eyes and shifting her body away from me so that she wouldn't have to meet my gaze, "and I am engaged to Raoul".

It took my a few moments to register what she had said and its implications. I couldn't hide my shock when I relaised: the Phantom of the Opera was in love with Christine.

\--xxx--

People do crazy things when they are in love, and the Phantom of the Opera was no exception.

The night of the premiere of his Opera, Don Juan Triumphant, he replaced our principal tenor, Piangi, on stage and sung a duet with Christine. I didn't know much about him, but I knew from the quality of his opera that he was a highly intelligent person, so he must've known he was walking straight into Raoul's poorly throughout and executed trap.

As they reached the climax of the song, which was certainly the most morally questionable piece I had ever heard, Christine unmasked him on stage. My heart was in my throat when I saw the genuine look of terror and hurt on his face, and my heart broke a little when I heard him ask "why Christine? why?". But any compassion I felt for him soon ended when he grabbed my friend and absconded with her through a trapdoor into the darkness.

In the commotion that followed I had managed to sneak away and avoid the armed guards and police officers who had now decended into the opera house and were questioning the cast and crew. As a short and fairly inconsequential member of the ballet chorus I had managed to avoid their bumbling inquisition and began my search for mother. When I found her my suspicions about her knowledge and relationship with the Opera Ghost had been confirmed, as she had instructed Raoul how to find the ghost's home. I had offered to accompany him, eager to ensure my friend's safety and also participate in something worthwhile an valuable, but both my mother and the Vicomte had objected.

\--xxx--

Although my mother had forbidden me to do so, I had travelled with the mob through the bowels of the opera house. Torches and chanting driving on the collective aggression towards a man most of them had never encountered. I didn't recognise the majority of people who surrounded me, and I was certain thay most weren't even opera goers. Beyond Christine's love sick fiancé it is almost laughable to think of members of the aristocracy traipsing through the cellars and muddy waters, let alone wade and partially swim through the underground lake.

I recalled Christine's description of the Opera Ghosts home and while the mob turned over tables and chairs I quickly headed in the opposite direction until O came to a closed oak door. Nervously I pushed it open, not sure what I would do if I was confronted with the sight of the Phantom and Christine. But the room was empty bar the most magnificent organ I had ever seen (and to this day I cannot fathom how he managed to get it down below) and a throne. There was a literal throne , and I couldn't help but scoff at the man's arrogance and sheer audacity. The entire room and situation would have been laughable if it had not been so serious.

There was no sign if Christine, but I was certain there was the shape of a figure underneath the shroud that covered the seat of the throne. Nervously I reached out and pulled it back, but there was nothing there except his porcelain mask. I turned it over in my hands, tracing my fingers over its features. The inside, which would have met his skin, was lined with leather, which I thought couldn't have been the most comfortable against the skin. As I tilted it towards the light I was certain I saw traces of blood. Holding the Phantom's mask, both figuratively and metaphorically, felt strongly intimate, and I felt compelled to protect it.

I don't know how long I was beneath the opera house, but we all fled when we were told the building was on fire.

\--xxx--

I had been terrified when I returned home to the flat I shared with mother and saw the man I have come to know as Erik sitting by our fire crying. I had immediately panicked and turned fumbling to unlock the door so that I could escape. But my mother stilled my hands and shook her head gently.

She shushed me and placed her finger to my lips, "You don't need to be afraid of him. He won't hurt you", she spoke in almost a whisper

"His actions beg to differ", I muttered quietly enough so only she could hear me, but I am certain I saw the hunched figure pause momentarily and raise his head, before returning to his sobbing.

"Just don't mention her and he will be fine", mother replied placing a comforting hand on my arm

I doubted that. The man was crazy, insane, and belong in an institution somewhere. He had murdered both Piangi and Buquet, and judging by how adept he was at it I assumed many more.

"Why have you lit candles rather than used the gas lights? ", I asked in an attempt to distract my racing mind from my proximity to a murderer.

"He hasn't got his mask", she spoke as though I'd understand and feel some compassion for the man, but I didn't. Having seen his face when Christine had unmasked him, I fully understood why he preferred to lurk in darkness, but at the time I couldn't bring myself to feel much compassion for him. Although my opinion has since changed.

"Now go wash-up", she instructed, "I'll warm our broth on the stove".

When mother left me alone with the fabled Opera Ghost I fought the desire to run. Although he looked much less intimidating hunched over by the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, while his clothes appeared to be drying on a horse, he still scared me. Momentarily I realised he must have been naked beneath the blanket and I felt the sudden surge of annoyence; mother had berated me for my chaste relationship with Edward, yet she left me alone in a room with a naked madman.

"Don't worry Marguerite, your mother has given me a nightshirt". His voice was deep and smooth, but quivered as he fought to hold back tears. It was very unlike the booming and manical voice that he used to terrorised the Opera House. The voice he used was the voice of a broken man, not a ghost.

I felt a surge of compassion, and I reached into my satchel allowing my fingers to lightly brush the cold porcelain within. I could feel my blood pumping my ears, the loud thud becoming increasingly rapid as I slowly approached him.

We had never spoken before, and I did not know how one should interact with a broken hearted murderous ghost. I removed the mask and tentatively held it out, my entire arm shaking as I fought against my natural flight instinct.

"I believe this is your monsieur"

Within seconds he had snatched the mask from my hand and secured it around his face. And that was the start of my unusual friendship with Erik Zabelle, the Phantom of the Opera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make me happy


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik recalls the events that developed his friendship with Meg. Then realises she was hiding something

**Chapter Three:**

_Erik Zabelle: The Phantom of the Opera_

There have been several occasions in my life where have I genuinely believed that trepanning may have been a viable treatment for a headache. Medically speaking, if one's headache is caused by intercranal pressure then opening the skull would provide some relief - that is if the patent survives the operation and does not succumb to an infection. But my headache was not caused by swelling on the brain, nor by evil spirits or demons infesting my mind (although that would be a fitting explanation to excuse some of my previous behaviours and character flaws), it was caused by Marguerite Price's awful attempts at playing the violin.

I am under no illusions, I know I am an arrogant man and I have impeccably high standards when it comes to music. I know I find fault in performers others celebrate, such as the world renowned prima donna Carlotta Giudicelli, but words cannot express how awful Antionette Giry's daughter is at playing the violin. When she dances her timing is flawless, yet, unfothomably she is unable to transfer this skill into playing the violin.

Her husband, Edward Price, is a member of the symphonic and he occasionally tours the country and her dominions to show case the talent and grandure of the British Empire. Although I find the vanity of such a notion laughable, as much of the 'grandure' is funded by force, I cannot deny that the man's musical talents should be shared with the world. For the last two months Edward had been touring the north of England and Scotland and Meg had decided she wished to greet him a grand romantic gesture when he returned. As he was a violinist she had decided that she would play one of his compositions to celebrate both his return and their upcoming wedding anniversary. Needless-to-say, this was a very bad idea.

I had agreed to tutor Meg in a moment of foolishness. She had lured me into a false sense of security one Sunday afternoon while I attended our bi-weekly luncheon. She knew my weakness, and I should have realised she was scheming when she had dismissed the parlour maid and presented me with the dessert tray herself. Even more suspicious was the announcement that she had made the array of cakes herself, but I had become distracted by the mixture of Russian sandwiches, almond slices and my all-time favourite Prince of Wales cake. It was while I gorged myself on sweet treats that she had made her request, and I foolishly agreed.

\--xxx--

Meg and I had been unlikely friends for approximately sixteen years, and I can say with certainty that I owe many aspects of my meager redemption to her. She certainly wasn't the first person to show me kindness and compassion - that had been her mother and then my Angel - but she had consistently treated me in a way I knew I did not deserve.

Our friendship had started the night of my betrayal and heartbreak. After I had allowed my Angel to leave with her boy I had knelt looking at my Persian music box and resigned myself to my fate: death at the hands of the mob. But when my Angel had returned and had handed me my onyx ring, her eyes filled with tears, I knew I needed to suffer for the emotional and physical trauma I had put her through. So I had swam through the sewer and made my way to Antionette's home. I can still recall the feeling of my body becoming submerged in the ice cold water, the pain and shock shooting-up my legs and into my torso. My lungs felt like they were burning with every breath I took, my body struggling against the encroaching cold and the water, but I fought on. I fought on because I knew I had to live.

When I arrived at Antionette's home I had not been granted a warm welcome. In fact the ballet mistress had looked at me with such disdain I almost fled, but she once again showed me the compassion she had many years before and stepped aside allowing me to enter her home.

"Stay there", she instructed as she went out of sight, returning with a newspaper and peridocials that she began to place upon the floor, "you are not to lay a foot upon my carpet until you have bathed"

I carefully made my way through her flat to the bathroom and was relieved to find a fresh towel and plain cotton nightshirt folded neatly and placed upon the sink. She had already started running the water and had placed some carbolic soap and a flannel within arms reach of the bath.

"Obviously the nightshirt will be too short as it had belonged to Claude, but it should be enough to protect your decency", I nodded in response unsure of how to thank her, "call me when you are in the bathtub and I will take your clothes. They need to be burnt". I must've looked a pathetic sight - soaking wet, standing in a dimly lit bathroom covered in mud and fecal matter - I didn't even have the energy to respond. Normally I would've made a sarcastic or whitty remark about my decency, but I was physically and emotionall drained.

Exhausted and aching I allowed myself to become submerged in the bath, the water washing away evidence of my less than pleasant trip. I closed my eyes and recounted all of the interactions between myself and my Angel, from the first moment I heard her sing, when she bore her soul to me as our voices united in song, to her debut in Hannibal and then the following morning when she removed my mask.

My mask. I had left it back at my home. I began to panic when I realised I had subjected Antionette to my appearance. What I couldn't understand was how she hadn't reacted seeing my ruined face. Once I was washed and dressed I stood dumbly wondering what to do - if I left the room she would see me, but I could hardly remain hidden. I had sought her out while I was at my most vulnerable: I trusted her.

Once I left the sanctuary of the bathroom I was relieved to find she had turned off all of her gas lights and illuminated the room with a few well placed candles. Even now I struggle to understand why she showed me compassion and ensured the room was dimly lit to try and salvage what was left of my dignity.

"I am sorry I subjected you to my appearance", I stated in the most sincere tone I could muster, ensuring to remain close to the wall to allow the darkness to shroud my face

"You have subjected me to nothing but that God awful smell", she said firmly, before sticking the fire and gesturing I sit. I mad ethereal conscious decision to try and remain in the shadows, but Antionette's huffing was enough to draw me from the darkness. She handed me a patchwork quilt at had been folded over the arm of the chair. "Now rest, and I shall make us some broth".

While in Persia I had learnt the art of hypnosis; not the type that is 'practised' by charlatans in the music halls, but the ability to entice someone into a traveling state and then invade their thoughts and feelings with the power of suggestion. This may sound akin to those two-penny acts, but it is not. Those 'performers', which is a term I use very loosely when describing them, have accomplices in the audience who pretend to be hypnotised, whereas my skills will genuinely put people into a trance. I was reminded of these skills as I watched the flames dance in front of me - fire watching was one of the methods used in the East to create a hypnotic state - and I broke down into uncontrollable tears. I was once again being reminded of the atrocities I had committed against my Angel Christine, and how easily I had used my talents to manipulate hetlr into trusting me fully. I shuddered as I remembered her reaching to kiss me as I stranded her the night of her premiere, and how a weaker man would have succumb to his darkest desires.

Trapped in my own dispear and self-loathing I had forgotton about Antionette's daughter. It wasn't until I heard rustling and the thud of her back against the door I realised she was even present. Not wanting to startle her and cause a scream I didn't turn to face her, instead using the mirror above the mantle to observe her reaction. I saw that she had backed away, her face looked pale and I am certain there was trembling in her extremities. Antionette was by her side, obviously offering reassurances, but I doubt there was anything the ballet mistress could say to placate the anger I assumed the dancer had for me.

Meg Giry was my Angel's closest friend - beside her boy - and therefore she had every reason to hate me. I had tormented Christine, watched her through her mirror made her believe that I was an angel rather than the monster I am, and abducted her from the stage. I overheard a remark about my general behaviour that inferred that I was dangerous, which was completely justified, but rather than fleeing Meg Giry had remained in the room. It had been when her mother left us to continue making dinner that I had bore witness to Meg's compassion and kindness for the first time, because it was then that she had handed me my mask.

Three days passed before Meg spoke to me again. Antionette had left us alone while she ran errands, including fetching me some clothes and a visit to the post office. While she had been out Meg had made the pair of us lunch.

"I'm not hungry", I stated in a terse tone, hoping that she would leave me to my grief and self-destruction. I was reluctant to eat as I didn't believe I deserved nourishment; I was only living because I needed to suffer for what I had done to Christine, and had only eaten when Antionette had supervised me like I was a petulant child. I had no intention of succumbing to the whim of a ballet rat.

Meg loudly placed the plate down beside me, firmly enough for it to make a noise, but not hard enough to cause it to shatter and I could feel her gaze bore into my back. "You must eat", she said flatly before I heard her walk away. She was approximately in the doorway whe she stopped and addressed the elephant in the room, "you're not the only person to ever experience heartbreak and rejection, you know. I have experienced it, mother has experienced it. To be honest monsieur I suspect almost every person in the world has experienced it".

Her words struck a cord with me. I had spent so many years avoiding the human race that I had become indifferent to their emotions: I needed to otherwise I would never have been able to carry out my duties as the Shah's principal assassin.

Thus, I hadn't considered Meg's feelings when I had told her mother about the rendezvous she had been having with the English violinist.

I had watched their little romance blossom over the course of a couple of years, with them sneaking to the roof to hold hands and kiss. I hadn't witnessed anything that implied that Antionette's daughter was anything other than chaste, and the boy anything other than a gentleman, but it irked me to see their blatant disregard for, and disrespect of, her mother by keeping their courtship a secret. The final straw had been the night I had heard him propose to her and ask that she return to England with him. I wasn't going to allow Meg to elope with an English man, regardless of how talented a musician he was or how much of a gentleman he appeared to be, as it was devastate her mother. I had heard her decline the proposal, but I still feared she would run-off with him to fulfil some childish romantic fantasy - as my Angel had done.

With hindsight I know I was wrong. Seeing Meg and the English violinist engaged in a tyst in the same location as my Angel and her Vicomte was too much to bear. The roof had once been my second place of solitude, somewhere I went when I felt the need for fresh air or to allow the rain to wash away my sins. But it had become a place of romantic entanglement, which for one as ugly as I, was hard to stomach. It was jealousy and resentment that drew me to call on Antionette and make her aware of Meg's behaviour, not genuine concern for my most regular acquaintance and her daughter.

Meg had no intention of running-off with the man and abandoning her mother and her ballet career - she is much too level headed for such whimsical flights of fancy. And the Englishman had given no indication that he would pressure Marguerite to leave her home, regardless of how infatuated he was with her.

To this day I haven't told her I was the one who informed her mother of her relationship, although I am certain she has her suspicions. Afterall, who else could have witnessed his proposal on the roof of the opera house? And she knows that by chance I witnessed the Vicomte's proposal to my Angel on that very rooftop.

As it transpired the letter Antionette had posted the day she had left Meg and I alone was the acceptance of a job offer from the Royal Ballet in London. Meg seemed eager to travel across La Manche, I assumed at hope of seeing the violinist, and Antionette was excited by the prospect of choreographing for some of the most famous dancers in the world. Not once had I considered that their move to England would include me. I was surprised - and touched - when Meg brought it up one evening.

"How is Erik getting papers?", the blonde dancer asked as she looked up from her sewing. She appeared to be mending the lacing on a petticoat, something which must have been difficult by candlelight.

"I assume he is making them himself". Antionette replied, looking at me questioningly rather than her daughter,

"But forgery is illegal". Antionette looked as surprised as I by Meg's response, with us both snapping our heads in her direction. I was stunned that she seemed concerned about the legality of forgery when she was aiding and abetting a criminal: the most wanted man in the whole of Paris no less. It was when I saw her slightly upturned lips and exagerrated wide-eyed expression I realised I had gained my first insight into her humour.

"Which papers do you wish me to forge?", I asked Antionette, ensuring I acted overly dismissively towards Meg's expression and statement.

"Your travel documents. You can't leave France without them".

My body became ridged with shock and I felt my hands being to shake. Sweat beaded upon my brow and my heart began to race. I couldn't fathom why I would be accompanying them. I was being treated like a friend - a family member even - and I couldn't comprehend why.

"You are coming aren't you Erik? You can't stay in Paris, and England has so many theatres I am certain you'd find work", Meg chipped in, I suspect sensing my change in demeanour and obvious reluctance.

I didn't want to work. I didn't want to compose. My muse had left me and along with it my music. My mind had become fuzzy with the thought of attempting to compose again.

"Of course Erik is coming my dear", came Antionette's voice, "he will be travelling as my younger brother and your uncle".

So it was decided: I was relocating to England.

\--xxx--

Through my years of extortion and my 'activities' in Persia I had become a wealthy man. I am certain the mob and the imbeciles who ran the Garnier expected me to have stored my funds within my home, but I am no cretin. I had invested my money and deposited it in several banks around Europe using a variety of pseudonyms and falsified documents to ensure that no connections could be made to one man. Luckily, one of these banks, the National Provincial, was located in Waterloo, London.

Although it would take several weeks for the entirety of my funds to be transferred to the Provincial (through the further falsification of documents claiming I had inherited the money following my grandfather's/uncle's/business partner's passing) I had enough money stored in England to purchase both myself and Antionette homes in the fashionable London borough of Highbury. Of course Antionette had initially refused, but fully conceeded when I explained that I did not take charity and the purchase was in payment for her years of service, friendship and the risk both she and Meg had taken in harbouring me.

The three of us soon settled into a routine where I would visit them for Sunday dinner and spend the occasional evening in their company playing cards or reading in their livingroom. I continued to wallow in my self pity, and although both Meg and Antionette pressured me to play or compose, I removed myself from music in its entirety. Instead I began to compile a tome of my cultural observations from across the globe.

It hadn't taken Meg long to secure a position at the Royal Ballet and although I still believe that she deserved to be a sujet , or a coryphée at the very least, she seemed content in her role as a member of the chorus - much more than she was at the Garnier.

While at Paris I had generally paid little attention to Meg until she had started secretly courting the violinist and become my Angel's friend. She had been helpful in festering the legend of the Phantom through her over exagerrated and embellished stories of my adventures , and her eagerness to blame every unfortunate event or inconvenience upon me made my 'job' of haunting the Opera House much smoother.

That being said, I paid her enough mind to know she regularly stayed late to practise and her talent was the result of hard work and dedication rather than natural skill. I also knew the other dancers avioded her company due to her mother's position. I shan't lie and pretend the assistance I granted to Meg was out of pity or kindness, nor was it due to the debt I owed her mother; I instructed my Angel to assist the girl who had fallen asleep in the practice room because (of all the ballet dancers) Meg was less likely to lead her astray. And so from my Angel that the other women disliked Meg due to her mother's position, but this didn't appear to be the case at the Royal Ballet. Meg was popular, she had friends who would share cab rides withnand whom she would take strolls in one of London's numerous parks.

Over time I had become quite fond of Meg. I acted as the diligent, yet eccentric, wealthy uncle who would occasionally escort her home after performances. When alone we would discuss that night's performance, and Meg would listen to my heavy-handed critique of both the dancers and the orchestra.

The night of Antionette's death had been no different; Meg and I were discussing how the sujet appeared to tremor as she performed a croisé arabesque en pointe. As per custom I escorted Meg to her door and bid her goodnight lightly kissing the back of her hand, but unusually she invited me in for tea. I don't know why Meg decided to break with custom that particular night, but I am thankful she did.

The first indication that something was wrong was that the hallway remained dark and the unsettling feeling that washed over me. Due to my past activities I have an instinct for nothing subtle differences and sensing when something is amiss, my heckles raise and I become hyper-vigulant. Although I rarely accompanied Meg into the house after a performance I knew that Antionette would ensure the gas lamps in the hall were alight to welcome Meg home, but that night the household was still. My companion mumbled something unintelligible as she removed a candle and matches from the drawer in the mahogany console and directed me to the parlour while she fetched some tea.

As I approached the familiar oak panelled door I felt a sense of dread building in the pit of my stomach, and as soon as I entered the room I knew why.

I have seen many dead bodies in my lifetime, I know the look upon their eyes their ridged form and the unusual atmosphere that am surrounds them. I knew as soon as I entered the room that Antionette was dead; she was sitting in her favourite chair, crochet resting upon her lap and her hand dropped by her side. I quickly strode towards her, taking her wrist in my hand to feel for a heart beat and then placing my unmasked cheek next to her mouth to feel for the warmth of breath. My actions were an act of instinct and panic, followed by sadness and desperation, but evem as I engaged in the acts I knew they were fruitless. I knew she was dead.'

\--xxx--

Following Antionette's passing I became Meg's guardian, not that she really needed one at twenty-one. As per custom Antionette's house was sold and the money put into a trust for Meg, and I was responsible for bestowing her allowance as her closest male relative. I was expected to provide her with an allowance for clothing, trinkets, travel and respectable entertainment and leisure pursuits, closely monitoring her behaviour and spending, but in practise I did no such thing. I gave Meg her money and she was free to spend it however she saw fit.

The only real hindrance being Meg Giry's guardian was that she was required to move into my home. I could immediately tell Meg shared my reluctance and aversion to the idea, but it was not appropriate for Meg to live on her own - doing so would ruin her reputation and cause her to become isolated. It was also essential that we continued our charade of kinship otherwise I could face the hangman's noose or Madame Guillotine herself, so I convinced her to take up residence in my home through guilt: I knew she wouldn't risk my life due to her own pride and desire to be independent.

I truly hated the first six months Meg stayed in my home; she took it upon herself to organise my compositions, ensured that I ate regularly and most annoyingly she hid much of my liquor. I had confronted her one evening, ensuring I used my most threatening and ominious voice, but rather then quaking in terror and surrendering its hiding place she merely shrugged and told me that she knew I would never harm her.

I had stormed into the dining room and played angrily on the piano into the very early hours of the morning expecting her to conceed in exchange for peace, but she never came. Eventually I took to hiding alcohol in the wardrobe, and we never spoke of it again.

Meg had been living in my home for six months when she removed her mourning clothes, and although I am a fan of black, I was pleased to see lightness in her clothing.

I remember that morning precisely. Meg came down for breakfast wearing a bright green dress with cream lacing around the neckline and her hair braided and pinned loosely atop her crown. The dress complimented her deep green eyes, and as her hair was drawn away from her face it was much easier to notice her lips and charming smile. It was at that moment I realised how beautiful she was, and how many men would soon be clamouring at her feet now society deemed she had spent a sufficient amount if time grieving for her mother.

I noticed a change in Meg's demeanour not long after her public mourning period ended. I still heard her cry herself to sleep at night, but during the day she was eager to spend as little time at home as possible.

"You were gone a long time today", I commented one evening in the most nonchalant tone I could muster. We didn't often engage in idle chit-chat or small talk, or normal conversations centred around the arts and politics. Whenever our conversations would take a more mundane turn it was normally because the instigator wanted something.

"You've never been interested in my comings and goings before", she noted, tilting her head to the side as though was was searching for the real purpose behind my question. Except this time I wasn't trying to trick her; this time I was genuinely interested in how she spent her time.

"I am your guardian. It is my duty -"

"But it isn't your duty, is it?", she interrupted , "Not really. We aren't _actually_ related Erik.But if you must know: I have been spending time with Edward".

My blank stare was enough to cause a frustrated sigh and a brief wave of her hands angrily in my direction. "Sometimes the only person I believe you care about it yourself. Edward is the violinist I was courting at the Garnier. He was third chair. He returned to England to assist his ailing mother. He plays in the symphonic".

Of course I knew who Edward was, but my blank expression had been caused by her previous statement and was nothing to do with Edward Price. 'We aren't _actually_ related Erik', those words echoed through my mind. 'We aren't _actually_ related"; I knew that, but I had become accustomed to acting as though we were, but it was foolish of me to think that I would would experience some semblance of family life. Or so I thought.

A year had passed since Antionette left us and Meg had been promoted to a coryphée. Following the Royal Ballet's premiere of Sleeping Beauty I waited for Meg in a carriage near the stage door. I watched the dancers and musicians exit, some arm in arm, and some accompanied by well-dressed and clearly financially stable young men. I began to become irritated at Meg's tardiness, and then concerned. She was normally very punctual, and judging by the volume of the other cast members I began to consider the likelihood that she had consumed too much alcohol and may find herself in a dangerous situation. I was preparing to vacate my carriage and check on her wellbeing when I saw her exit on the arm of a young gentleman, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'm sorry I am late", Meg said as she climbed into the carriage, and in my annoyance I tapped on the roof to indicate to the driver it was time to depart. Meg had not taken her seat, so when it jerked forward she fell into me.

That was the closest Meg Giry and I had ever been. We had walked arm in arm, but the sudden momentum of the carriage had caused her to fall forward onto lap. I had never been that close to a woman, and if she noticed my discomfort she didn't show it.

"That was uncalled for Erik!", she said steadying herself and taking her own seat, "It was rude and unkind"

"And being late is rude and unkind".

She didn't respond, instead she turned her head and looked at the window. I noticed she seemed agitated; although she wore heavy skirts I could see that she was bouncing her feet and biting her lip.

We sat in silence. I feared she had noticed my reaction to her proximity, something I ca hardly be held responsible for.

"Edward is going to ask you for my hand", she announced turning her head sharply to look at me.

"And you are telling me this because?", I responded. I tried to feign indifference to hide both my fear and worry. If Meg married then I would once again be alone and although I belonged in solitude I had become accustomed to her presence in my life.

"because you are my guardian and Edward wishes to seek your permission".

This was another landmark for me; I was Meg's guardian, but only in name. She had practically told me that months prior. The charade had been created to protect my real identity, but I had never actually fulfilled any of my duties. 

"But I am not your uncle"

"I know that", she responded as she moved closer to me and took my hand in hers, "but you are the only family I have. And both Edward and I would like your approval".

I couldn't help but smile. And when he asked, of course I granted it.

\--xxx--

Twelve years had passed since that night, and Meg and Edward appeared to be happily married. It is their happy marriage and upcoming anniversary that had been the cause of my headache: Meg Price should never be allowed to touch a violin again. It had been those words which had caused a blazing row, resulting in me storming out of her house, cloak billowing reflective of my previous life, and drinking half a bottle of Scotch whisky once I had returned home.

My drink induced sleep was rudely interrupted by a perissitent banging on the front door. Like Meg and Edward, none of my domestics resided in my household, consequently I had to get the door myself. Checking the time I assumed that my past, and my current less-then-legal activities had finally caught up with me.

I hurried to the display cabinet above the fireplace and removed an ivory walking stick I had collected in South Africa and made my way to the door. If the police were going to arrest me I was going out with a fight.

But instead do the Police on the doorstep, it was Meg Price.

"Have you come to assault my ears and mind further?" I said dryly to imply she wasn't welcome,

"Whatever do you mean?" she replied. I held out my hand to take her hat and gloves as she stepped over the threshold. But she declined and remained stationeryin my hallway. "I have come to ask for your assistance, my friend needs papers. She wishes to travel to the USA".

"How very incontinent for her, she won't be able to board a ship without them", I stated. I knew what she wanted, but I was going to make her ask.

"Will you help?"

"Whatever do you mean?", I continued with my pretense of ignorance.

"Her husband has passed and she and her children are fleeing from his family",

"She has my condolences, but I don't see how I can help". I could tell she was getting frustrated, her arms were crossed and her lips pursed. I also wondered what atrocities her friend's in-laws must have subjected the woman to if she was willing to risk the safety of herself and her children to get forged documents.

"I know you can, and do, forge documents. Please don't play coy with me."

When I didn't respond she became more visibly annoyed, "do you treat all your customers this way?"

"I assumed she wouldn't be paying, therefore not a customer. More a favour for you"

Meg turned her back on me and walked towards the door. She paused and turned her head towards me, hand hovering over the door knob. "I see I have wasted my time" she said with a heavy sigh.

"I never said no".

\---xxx---

When we arrived at Meg's home she seemed nervous, her hands were trembling as she fumbled with the key. As soon as we overstepped the threshold she turned on her heels and placed her palms flat against my chest.

"Wait here", she said softly before taking a few steps back, "give me a few minutes and then I will explain. Just promise you won't be mad"

I nodded in response. There were a few things that Meg could do that would cause her to encounter my genuine wrath - primarily informing the police of my identity.

Meg disappeared into the livingroom, but no sooner had she stepped through the doorway she had left it and hurried up the stairs, falling forward as her boot caught her petticoats. I took two steps at a time to reach her, and as I helped her up I first saw the girl. She was standing at the top of the stairs holding a candle and looking terrified.

She was a splitting image of the Vicomte de Chagny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make me happy and encourage me to continue.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos make me very happy


End file.
